


Rose of Memory

by amonitrate



Series: Stateless [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:24:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: You are all dying. Twenty years. Six months. What's the difference?He let Methos pick the place, a dingy dive in Montparnasse, not so far away from the cold ground where Alexa lay.





	Rose of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Extra special thanks go to[](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/) **unovis_lj** for the beta.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Originally written circa 2006.

_Lady of silences_

_Calm and distressed_

_Torn and most whole_

_Rose of memory_

-T.S. Eliot

He let Methos pick the place, a dingy dive in Montparnasse, not so far away from the cold ground where Alexa lay. One drink became four. Methos changed the subject any time Joe tried to prod him into talking about anything serious. The waiter gave up after a few rounds and left them with a bottle of Jack. 

Amanda had warned him. It had taken him two days to convince Methos to leave the bookstore. A bar wouldn't have been Joe's first choice -- he'd planned to take Methos to a homey bistro down the street from Shakespeare and Company; but Methos insisted they come here. There was nothing special about the place that Joe could see; but he didn’t argue. Joe watched him knock the liquor back like it was water, until the Immortal’s shoulders loosened with something like relief. Joe envied him a little, even if the relaxation was too forced to be natural. He wished he could let it all go, just for an hour. Instead his worry folded in upon itself, settled into a small hard pebble that dug into his belly, oblivious to the drink. 

"Joe," Methos looked up from the whiskey bottle he'd been denuding in slow even strips. "What was she like, before she got sick?"  


Joe straightened in his chair. "Alexa?" 

Methos nodded. He wound one of the white strips around his finger, like a ring. When he lifted his head his eyes were hungry.  


"She was… a hardworking kid. That never changed, even after she started chemo." Joe scratched his head, trying to remember Alexa when she'd first started at the club. He shrugged. "I dunno. I never really talked to her then. Not until she started missing work."  


He wished he had more to give, but back before she'd gotten sick Alexa had been just an employee. Someone he handed beers to, joked with now and again. She'd kept to herself, more serious and focused than his other waitresses. Waiting tables had been a job to her, a way to get through school -- not a social club. He'd admired that.  


The white paper band circled Methos' fingers, one after the other. He wasn't wearing a ring. Joe tilted his head, tongue loosened by the whisky just enough to ask the question that had lingered in the back of his mind since Methos returned from Geneva. "Did you really marry her?"  


Methos blinked as though Joe's question had slithered out of the bottle to coil on the table between them. He blinked again, and young eyes in a young face became old eyes in a tired face. "Yeah." He folded the paper strips into an intricate origami spiral that unraveled when he let it go. "It wasn't a church wedding, if that's what you're asking."  


"I'm glad." Joe poured another round.  


"Hmm." Methos tipped his head back, studying Joe down the length of his nose. His eyes were bright now, not old anymore. Not young either. "I thought you were pissed we didn't invite you."  


"No." Joe turned the bottle to give Methos access to the unblemished label on the other side. "There wasn't room for me. For anyone else. I saw that. You didn't have the time."  


They finished off the bottle between them and left it sitting naked and empty in the curled nest of its label. When Methos rose from the table he had to use the chair for balance. Joe wasn't much better though he'd drunk far less. He followed Methos out of the bar, surprised when night met them at the door. It wasn't late but dark still came early, and with it the cold. Joe decided he should get back to the club, see if Mike was handling everything; but then he noticed where Methos had led them.  


"Methos --" The Cimetière Montparnasse wasn't the safest place at night. Never mind the fact that the place was closed.  


"It's okay." Methos's voice seemed to come from someone else. "I'll see you later."  
  
Like hell. Joe just gave him a look. Methos shrugged and vaulted over the wall then opened the gate for Joe. They didn't stay long. Methos stood still for awhile, a wraith in the shadows by Alexa's grave. He traced the top edge of her tombstone as though he thought it might crumble under his hands. Then he pulled something up over his head from around his neck, a string of beads that glowed in the distant streetlights. A tiny crucifix dangled from one end. A rosary. Joe didn't need to ask to know it had been Alexa's. Methos bent down to dig a shallow hole in the hard ground with one hand, then carefully deposited the rosary inside. He patted the earth over the filled indentation and then stood.  


Neither of them said a word as they left Alexa behind. If it had been anyone else Joe would have hugged him. Instead he walked close at his side, away from the dark maze of the cemetery. Methos was shivering. Joe sighed. Methos stumbled and knocked into Joe before he could catch himself.  


"Adam." Methos didn't look up. Didn't look like the Immortal was listening, but Joe continued anyway. "C'mon Adam, let's get a cab."  


"S'okay, Joe. Go ahead," Methos said. "I'll walk."  


Joe grabbed his sleeve and Methos slipped on the snowy sidewalk. Somehow Joe managed to haul the other man upright without going down himself. "It's damn cold out here. Come back with me to the club," Joe pressed.  


Methos rounded on the Watcher with a halfhearted snarl. He pulled away and shook his head. "I want to walk."  


Joe let silence fall, taken aback at the sudden anger. Methos glanced around them as if noticing the heavy shower of white flakes for the first time. "It is cold," he said. The Immortal slouched down into the collar of his coat. Five thousand years old and he didn't know enough to wear a scarf in the winter. "Get a cab. I'll meet you at the club later." Methos smiled at Joe's doubtful expression. The smile didn't reach his eyes, but at least he'd made the attempt. "Really. I just need to clear my head."  


"Or lose it," Joe muttered. Methos waited, as if for Joe's permission. "Okay. I'll see you later," Joe said. Methos turned away, his hand up to hail a taxi. "And by later I mean tomorrow, Adam. Not next week."  


Methos flashed Joe a false look of hurt. "Of course," he said in his most innocent tone. "Now off with you before you freeze."  


The cab felt balmy and close after being outside so long. Methos ambled down the street, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind. Joe watched him as the cab pulled away from the curb. He could tell the driver to tail Methos, to follow at a distance. Just to make sure.  


As if Methos wouldn't notice.  


Methos could take care of himself. He sure wasn't going to let anyone else do it. Joe let himself lean back into the seat and told the driver to take him home. 

* * *


End file.
